


Oh, the weather outside is frightful

by Mangerine



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Author wants hot chocolate too, Coming Out, Fears of rejection and violence, M/M, with Charizard marshmallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21958048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangerine/pseuds/Mangerine
Summary: First, he wasn't sure.Then, his brother was champion, with the nation's attention.Now, over Christmas and hot chocolate, Hop has something he wants his brother to know,(and if his brother's completely platonic roommate of five years and counting overhears, well, that's just a risk he has to take.)
Relationships: Dande | Leon/Kibana | Raihan, Hop/Masaru | Victor
Comments: 15
Kudos: 609





	Oh, the weather outside is frightful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freshia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshia/gifts).



"I didn't want to tell you while you were still Champion," Hop blurts out, keeping his hands balled on his lap, "I didn't want the media pulling you into it."

Leon still hasn't released the handle on the mug of hot chocolate he's pushing towards Hop. It’s getting a little too warm for this scratchy Christmas sweater, suddenly.

"I'm sorry for doing this during Christmas," Hop whispers, trying to remember Victor's warm hands in his own cold ones. It's not working; the only image is the one time he recalls his brother losing his temper, all those years ago.

The words he's shouting aren't clear, the reason _why_ he’s shouting isn’t clear - but the rage in his eyes is, the pressure of his presence is. Hop realizes the only reason he's not halfway down the icy streets to the train station is that he's already frozen where he sat, by the mere memory of his brother’s anger.

He can’t look up. Even though there’s a million and one things he’s prepared his heart to hear, even though he’s let himself imagine those cruel lines in his brother’s voice. Sometimes he falters—

_Thinking of Victor always worked, why isn’t it working now?_

_Why did he come here? Why did he have to tell his brother now? It could have waited; it already waited three years._

Through the pain there’s a thin strand of humour – he can’t believe he was ready with the words and the goodbyes: “Guess you’ll have one less gift to prepare next Christmas-” or “That was my **_boyfriend_** who wiped Wyndon Stadium with your Charizard, so Merry Christmas, and fu-”

All that preparation for heartbreak and hatred, and he completely forgot to prepare for how terrified he might be.

The room is stifling, and through his lashes Hop finds himself gauging the distance between himself and his brother. He’s grown a little taller himself, but Lee’s still got a good head-and-a-half on him. He might be able to run, but, his _hands_! Hop’s lucky if he gets to stand once every four hours in the lab compiling reports, let alone carry anything heavier than a case of documents, but his brother’s still at the battle tower every day – if a punch even nicks his jaw –

The fear is breathless hurting, there’s nausea rising with an instinctual fear to leave. The disgust has a ringing sound that keeps his ankles too limp and numb to move from his seat.

Hop remembers why Lee lost his temper.

He must have been six, or however young you had to be to follow a wild wooloo into the long, swaying grass when all you had was a ball of yarn as your pokeball. It was winter, with how quickly the sun set; or maybe it was summer, with how bright the sun was when he blinked. Suddenly the white form of the wooloo was consumed in a glare of light, disappearing. All he remembers was the dark, the itch along his arms from brushing against the rough stalks, the rush of courage sinking from his heart to his feet, rushing away and leaving him cold.

He’d dropped the ball of yarn to cry. Then stopped because he was a big boy, and crying wouldn’t do.

Sniffling was fair game though.

So he shuffled forward, and forward again. The field had to end somewhere – he could see where the long grass stopped and the dirt road began when Lee let him ride on his shoulders. It was going to be alright. He saw something in the distance, through the grass, and stumbled towards it. The small movement gave him hope.

“Lee! Lee, is that you?” he cried, lunging at the shape.

Warm, and soft. It’s just the wooloo again, munching curiously on the ball of yarn. Right where he left it.

Now even crying was fair game. Hop clung to the wooloo and sobbed his heart out. His feet were sore and even his socks were soggy from the damp earth. The unbothered wooloo munched a moment more, before spitting the yarn out and trotting off, Hop still clinging to it.

“No! Don’t leave me!” Hop sobbed, clambering and tugging at the disgruntled pokemon. It jerked this way and that in an attempt to throw the hysterical child off, and when that didn’t work, half-heartedly rolled forward. Hop, tossed a foot forward, immediately ran back to its side, dirt-caked and wailing.

The pokemon huffed and settled down, making a tinkling sound as it did so. With his companion in no rush to leave, Hop finally calmed down, tucking his cold fingers into the wooloo’s coat for warmth.

There it was again, the tinkling sound.

“You have a bell,” Hop realizes, finding the small collar around the pokemon’s neck. “Are you lost too?”

Comforted immediately by the knowledge that he wasn’t the only lost one in the field, Hop leaned down, laying fully on the soft pokemon.

“We’ll make it home together, I promise,” Hop says, the tension leaving him. Under him, the wooloo shifts, stands, and begins its familiar trek home.

The slow ambling doesn’t wake Hop, but a loud voice does. When he wakes, the air is cool and the breeze reaches him, unlike the humidity of the long grass. The sky is still dark.

“Just go home, leave this to the adults –” the voice says, obviously irritated.

A harsh, short scraping sound of shoes on concrete.

“That’s my brother!”

The sound again, followed by a grunt of exertion.

“Let me go!” Hop hears, as the wooloo calmly presses on to their neighbour’s farm.

“That’s my brother!” comes the voice, clear without the muffling of the grass, “He could be hurt right now! I’m not leaving him!”

That’s his brother indeed, Lee with his eyes sharp and gold like lightning in dance. Hazy from sleep, that’s all Hop remembers, angry eyes, the violent flash of incisors as he shouts, his small frame straining against the policeman’s grip, struggling to run out to the fields.

That’s his brother. It’s his brother. His brother. Hop can’t look at him. He wasn’t ready for heartbreak after all.

“Hop, you..-”

**“BEEP-ROTOM, BEEP-ROTOM, BEEP-ROTOM”** floats a rotom-phone into the kitchen, with Raihan sliding after it in fuzzy Christmas socks. It’s floating too fast in its excitement that Raihan has to swipe at it a few times before he successfully catches it to switch the timer off.

"Cookies are done!" Raihan calls, louder than needed over the volume of his bluetooth earphones.

Leon and Hop stare back.

"What? What's up?" Raihan says, sliding over the smooth parquet. The approaching warm scent of vanilla and butter does nothing for Hop's nerves.

"Placemat," he says, and Leon shifts the knitted squares into the center wordlessly. The cookies rattle as they're set down in baking trays.

"Your charmander marshmallows are melting," Raihan says, peering into their still-full cups. Most of them have lost their tails, melting into shapes that resemble dittos instead.

Raihan pulls an earbud out and grimaces at the unending “Christmas Soft Jazz and Lo-fi Beats” Leon insists on playing.

"What's biting you?"

“Hop..." Leon begins, before a force seizes Hop like the Christmas ghost himself and Hop jumps up and all but shouts-

"I'm gay! I'm sorry I did this during Christmas, ok? I just wanted you to know because I'm in, i-in Victor, I just, he--!"

Hop can't breathe through the tears.

Raihan pulls the seated Leon to lean against his own hip, a warm oven mitt against his shoulder. Leon looks up at him. Raihan looks down at him.

"Hop," Leon says, looking right at him.

"Is mum _still_ telling you that Raihan and I are just roommates?"

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends,
> 
> I wish for happy endings and families, and if that has to be fantasy this holiday season,  
> I hope you find a wooloo while you're lost in this huge field.  
> Be gentle to yourself, even if the night is long.
> 
> Dedicated to ash, my 24/7 lo-fi hiphop beats to whine about everything to.


End file.
